


Soup

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, F/M, Fluff, Forgetting to eat, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Young Malcolm Bright, soff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Take one tablet with food. Simple instructions for someone who ate typical meals like breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Impossible for the unintentional faster.Young Bright works through an illness at Gil and Jackie's. Soff soff.For Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt Forgetting to Eat.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 75
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Soup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleMissAllGone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissAllGone/gifts).



Take one tablet with food.

Simple instructions for someone who ate typical meals like breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even doable for the five meals a day person or a grazer.

Impossible for the unintentional faster.

"What are you protesting?" one of his classmates asked. "Gonna starve until your dad is let out of prison?"

Gil and Jackie knew better. "Just a little bit of farina, dear." She'd thin it with water until it was a soup he could down just swallowing. They'd sit with him, including him in the conversation even when he was quiet, carrying on like nothing special had happened when he spoke.

But it didn't always work. Malcolm didn't get the urge to eat, and on top of that, some of his medications made him feel sick when he did. Some mornings required Gil's reminder to eat, and others found Jackie pouring his breakfast into a thermos to bring to school. On a few occasions, he'd try a few spoonfuls, yet would get sick before he got out the door.

So when an antibiotic got added into the mix to treat Lyme disease and eating became all the more necessary, everything went to shit.

Malcolm downed his pills like routine, taking sips of water in between, and was puking in the bathroom before Jackie and Gil got up. "You need to eat with those, sweetheart," she reminded, handing him a washcloth.

She didn't yell that he was thirteen - why couldn't he follow instructions? Didn't force food down his throat like he'd waste away if she blinked. Didn't beg the counselor to discern what type of eating disorder he had, and goddamit fix it already.

She just made his farina, squeezed his shoulder, and they sat with him while he tried again. Gil talked about the car show that would be in town on Sunday, Jackie shared she'd be late because of an extra play rehearsal at school, and Malcolm listened, wondering if he could live under their roof forever.

The school day broke the fantasy, derision from students and teachers commonplace. "You gonna stab me, Whitly?" A repeated pantomime with a plastic knife. "Look out - don't make him angry."

Teachers were a little subtler, cloaking their disgust in watching his every move, looking for signs of similarity to his father. His tremor caused the most confusion, many misunderstanding it as anger and a warning of strike. He spent the last period in the nurse’s office, biding his time until he could go home.

He swallowed his second dose, knowing it was important to take the pills to rid the spirochetes. He read about their coiled nature, imagined how they crawled throughout his body from a tick bite behind his knee. He wondered if the bacteria could eat away some of the worst parts of himself, perhaps leaving behind a teen who could function within the constraints of society.

His stomach rolled, reminding him he’d again forgotten the other important part: food. He padded out to the kitchen and found a can of tomato soup in the pantry. Several twists of the can opener, and his bowl of soup went in the microwave. Beeps, and it slowly spooned into his mouth from the kitchen counter.

But his stomach kept turning over, searching for reasons to complain. There wasn’t enough talking - Gil and Jackie would be home later. He hadn’t finished enough writing in his journal - his hand wouldn’t stop shaking. There wasn’t enough food - couldn’t he try something a bit more than tomato soup?

He gagged and his stomach contents released all over the kitchen floor, betraying him without enough warning to get to the bathroom. His eyes gaped at the mess. The acrid smell made him gag again, but there wasn’t anything left.

A sea of red bled from the end of the cabinets to the sink and screamed at him to clean it up before Gil or Jackie got home. He scrambled for paper towels and swathed his hand. He swiped until they were sopping, then dumped them in the garbage, repeating the process again. A heaping pile in the can, and the floor was clear, but it reeked. And was tinted.

He rummaged under the sink and pulled out an all-purpose cleaner. The orangey spray recalled visions of his mother delegating to the housekeeper, the smell as fake as her attempts to hide her alcohol. She didn’t have time for anything but drinking and worrying he’d turn into his father. He thought it was easier for her not to see him. He scrubbed away his thoughts into the can.

The sour smell replaced, his stomach filled with dread: he could still see the red. He wet a few more paper towels, and ran them over the blemishes, trying to dampen the smell, trying to blot out the color. Nearly the whole paper towel roll into the garbage, and the stain remained.

Tremors from his hand grew to shakes throughout his body that pulled him down when breathing got too difficult. Breaks and gasps, and his ass hit the linoleum, cabinets bracketing him on either side. Thoughts of exercises to return him to a regular rhythm disappeared with the mirage of the Arroyo’s home. They wouldn’t let him stay if he was destructive. They’d come home, and he’d be out.

Tears bled into his knees, unable to wash away the panic. He rocked and sobbed, the cabinet doors creaking behind him. His last moments in the loving space he had ruined.

Gil opened the door to Malcolm sitting in the corner of the kitchen, head buried in his knees. He dropped his things and went straight to him. “Malcolm,” he spoke as he approached, not wanting to spook him. “I’m here.” He knelt and touched his foot.

Malcolm didn’t respond, instead snuffling into his knees.

“Are you hurt?” Gil’s concerned eyes inspected him for damage.

Malcolm shook his head.

Gil looked around the kitchen, taking in the pungent orange, the overflowing garbage can, a bowl on the counter, and the slightest brush of tint on small parts of the floor. “Can I touch your neck?” he asked, wanting to offer him comfort

Malcolm shook his head again.

“Whatever happened, you’re not in trouble.” He squeezed his foot, the only connection he could manage with the kid.

Gil sat across from him on the floor, leaning against the island. “At work today we had a suspect we had to chase on foot. Got himself caught up in a wrought iron fence,” Gil shared the familiar background conversations of breakfasts and dinners. “Had to cut his shirt to get him out of there.”

“And we might be getting ready for another stakeout - we’re not sure how that’s gonna pan out yet - but might mean another ride in the back of the car for you.” He smiled over how much he looked forward to bringing joy to the kid.

Malcolm’s eyes peeked above his knees. “I can still come?” his voice cracked.

“Of course.” Warm eyes looked back at Malcolm.

Malcolm ducked back into his knees. “I wrecked the kitchen.”

Gil shrugged. “Looks fine to me.”

“The _floor_ ,” he complained.

“Jackie will know what to do. It’s really not that bad,” he attempted to persuade a spill wasn’t the end of the world.

Malcolm stayed quiet, convinced they weren’t looking at the same thing.

“When it’s been a rough day, I like to take a shower to wash it away a bit. Then spend some time with Jackie, with you - people who bring me big smiles.” His heart hurt when they were upset, and he’d do anything to try to help them.

Malcolm’s head lifted up, then his mouth crinkled with a one-sided attempt at a smile for Gil.

“How about you clean up, kid?” He patted his foot. “I’ll start dinner, and Jackie will be home soon enough.”

Malcolm pushed against the cabinets and stood in agreement. He disappeared in silence.

When he reemerged from the bathroom in pajamas, all of the evidence was gone. The floor sparkled, only wafting the slightest bit of vinegar. The counter presented the fixings for make your own tacos. A fresh liner was the only thing present in the garbage can.

“Hi, dear,” Jackie smiled at him from where she was setting the table. “Gil’s washing up - he’ll be back any minute.”

Malcolm looked at his feet. “I’m sorry for the mess.”

“It’s no big deal - how do you feel?”

“Tired.”

“I’m about to make broth so you can turn yours into taco soup.” The trick she’d learned to get the kid to eat a bit more food. “Do you want to finish the table?”

“Sure.”

He crossed to her to place the flatware, and surprised her with a hug. She rubbed his back and kissed the top of his head. “It’s gonna be okay.”

And in the warmth of her arms, in the unconditional love of their home, he believed her.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
